Stumps and harsh rocks, and prostrate trunks all
charred
And gnarled roots naked to the sun and rain,--
They seem in their grim stillness to complain,
And by their plaint the evenings peace is jarred.
These ragged acres fire and the axe have scarred,
And many summers not assuaged their pain.
In vain the pink and saffron light, in vain
The pale dew on the hillocks stripped and marred!
But here and there the waste is touched with cheer
Where spreads the fire-weed like a crimson flood
And venturous plumes of goldenrod appear;
And round the blackened fence the great boughs lean
With comfort; and across the solitude
The hermits holy transport peals serene
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